


steak tacos

by Horsantula



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Dallas Steaks (Blaseball Team), Gen, Season 11, Unlimited Tacos (Blaseball Team) mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horsantula/pseuds/Horsantula
Summary: The Shelled One's Pods have fallen back to the plane!Patel Beyonce fell to the Steaks.A lot has happened since the Snackrifice, and Patel Beyonce must adjust to his new team.
Relationships: Patel Beyonce & Conner Haley, implied Conner Haley/Sebastian Telephone
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	steak tacos

When Patel Beyonce returns to consciousness at last, he’s lying flat on the ground, daylight blazing red through his eyelids. His eyes flutter open and he stares up at the sky. For the first time in a while, it’s not obscured by a giant peanut - instead, a black hole looms over him, spinning slowly. Patel blinks hard, rubs his eyes. When he opens them, it’s still there. 

As his memories start flooding back, he puts one hand on the ground and pushes himself up to a sitting position. He’s in a blaseball stadium, but an unfamiliar one, and he’s wearing a ripped red jersey with a peanut emblem on it. There’s a persistent throbbing in his head and a dull ache in his back, and a truly disgusting smell of burnt peanut fills the air. Something sharp digs into his shoulder, and he reaches behind him and finds a jagged chunk of singed peanut shell on the ground. He tosses it away and it goes skidding over the neatly manicured grass. Dimly he remembers plummeting, spinning out of control in his prison, a horrible crashing sound, and then darkness. 

Patel looks down and sees he’s sitting in a shallow crater of sand, which he realizes is part of the sand hazard of a putting green. Another piece of peanut shell has slammed into the nearby flagstick, snapping it in two. _Oops._

The glolf course, as well as the steak motifs decorating the stadium, confirm his suspicions. He’s in Dallas, and if he knows anything about blaseball, his stay will likely be more than just a short vacation. 

His head’s no longer spinning, and slowly he gets to his feet. Buried in the sand nearby is his blaseball bat, handle side up. He goes to it and has to pull hard to dislodge it, leaving a deep divot. The barrel is burnt, but it should probably still work. Probably. 

A sudden horrible thought - _where are my teammates? -_ seizes him, and he reaches in his back pocket to check his phone, which was his only connection to his outside world all those seasons in the peanut. But when he examines it, he finds its screen is shattered into a million tiny bits, and the phone itself is bent in an angle that is definitely beyond salvation. Patel drops it and lets out a frustrated groan. 

Running footsteps approach and he turns to see their source - several Steaks players, led by a burly guy with a bushy brown beard. He yells, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think,” Patel says. “Um. Hi. I’m Patel.”

The man skids to a stop and extends a hand to shake. “Welcome to Dallas. I’m Conner, the Steaks’ captain.”

“Nice to meet you.” Patel dimly remembers him from a game that seems like a lifetime ago. “Sorry to um, intrude on you like this.”

“Don’t worry about it. That sounded like a nasty fall,” Conner says. “We just finished practice, headed inside, and then we heard the loudest CRUNCH. Guess now that the Shelled One’s gone, that’ll be happening all over the Immaterial Plane.”

Various players start picking up the pieces of peanut shell and carting them away to the trash. Patel thinks that if he never sees a peanut again, it will be too soon.

“How long has it been?” he asks. “For a while I could still hear people outside the shell, but I don’t remember much after I joined the PODS. Just flashes here and there.” 

“Season eleven starts on Monday,” Conner says. “Don’t worry, we’ll getcha up to speed. For now, why don’t you come inside, meet everyone, and have some coffee.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, Patel is sitting in the Steaks lounge with an Americano warming his hands. The entire Steaks team is clustered around him, perched on the various sofas around the room or leaning against the ping-pong table. From his spot on the sofa, he peers into the neighboring rooms: the locker room, which has large cubbies for everyone’s equipment, and a sizable kitchen, from which the coffee machine is gurgling.

He remembers that his very first game was in this stadium, wearing his purple and yellow Tacos jersey for the first time and wondering what he had gotten himself into. He had come to call the Tacos his family, but now that team was changed irreversibly, beyond what a feedback swap or two could repair. Blaseball was cruel like that. And it hasn’t spared the Steaks either. Across the room, several of the Steaks’ signature marbled meat jerseys hang framed on the wall, displaying names and numbers: _Wheeler, Monstera, Telephone, Mina._

“Alright, team, let’s stop gawkin’ and introduce ourselves,” Conner says, as the last team members exit the kitchen with coffee in hand. “Again, I’m Conner, and if you ever need any grilling know-how, I’m your guy. Let’s go in a circle - Gallup, you’re next.”

“Howdy, I’m Gallup,” says the player next to Conner, tipping her hat at Patel, which has two holes cut in it to accommodate the horns protruding from her forehead. 

“I’m Kline, welcome to the Steaks!” says the next player, whose head appears to be a citrus fruit. They’re sitting on the ping-pong table, with their legs dangling several feet off the ground. 

Eventually, all of Patel’s new teammates have introduced themselves. He knows it’ll take at least a couple days to remember all of their names, especially with his head throbbing as it is. He manages a wan smile and says, “Nice to meet you all.”

“We’re glad you’re here,” Conner says. “Now, tomorrow’s our last day of practice before the new season - but take all the time you need to recover from, well, everything. Do you have a place to stay?” 

Patel slowly shakes his head.

“I have a sleeper sofa,” Conner says. “That might be the best option for now, as we get things figured out.” 

“Thank you,” Patel says. 

* * *

A few minutes later, after the team has divvied up responsibilities for tomorrow’s pre-season cookout, Conner and Patel leave the stadium in Conner’s car. A few blocks away is Conner’s house, which Patel discovers is small and tidy, decorated with blaseball and grilling memorabilia. The living room is filled with stacks of boxes of Steaks plennants, shirts, and blaseball caps.

“Sorry about the mess,” Conner says. “I, uh...would’ve cleaned up a little better if I knew people would be comin’. Just got a shipment of Steaks stuff in this morning.” 

“It’s totally fine, don’t worry,” Patel says. “This is really generous of you already.”

“Well, if you need anything, just ask. There’s glasses in the cabinet next to the microwave, so feel free to get water from the fridge whenever you want. I’ll be cookin’ dinner soon, how does grilled cheese sound?”

“Sounds great.”

Patel grabs a shower and is surprised at how much better he feels, the peanut residue scrubbed away and the PODS uniform disposed of. He dons a Steaks shirt, which fits a little wonky due to his height, but it’ll have to do for now. When he exits the bathroom, the delicious smell of butter and cheese has filled the house, and a perfectly toasted grilled cheese sandwich waits for him at the kitchen table. Conner has turned on the television, and the BNN anchor is staring rather dolefully at them.

“With the death of the Shelled One, Blaseball has now departed the Discipline Era. This new Era of Peace and Prosperity brings much uncertainty. Who is the Boss, and what does her arrival mean for the future of Blaseball? Now, we report on the fates of the PODS and Hall Stars players.”

Conner and Patel exchange a worried glance.

“The Shelled One’s Pods have fallen back to the plane. Peanut Bong fell to the Tacos. Wyatt Quitter fell to the Lift. Francisca Sasquatch fell to the Dale. Patel Beyonce fell to the Steaks.”

Patel dimly registers his own name, but hearing the names of his former teammates, scattered throughout the league, just confirms that the Unlimited Tacos he knew is gone forever. If he’d known the Snackrifice would end up like this, would he still have gone through with it? He can’t keep thinking like that, it’ll just torment him. Best to just keep moving, until the gods throw another curveball his way. 

He notices Conner looking at him with a concerned expression. “Hey,” he says, “I know this must be a really tough time for you. So if we can do anything for you - anything at all - to make you feel more welcome, just say the word.” 

“Thank you,” Patel says. “Guess it’s just the nature of the splort. But I’m glad I fell here, if I had to fall at all. The Steaks have been very kind.”

“Yes, well, we’re not strangers to heartache,” Conner says. He sets his jaw as he says this, and Patel follows his glance to a shelf next to the television. It’s decorated with team pictures of the Steaks spanning several seasons. At the very top is a framed picture of Conner, grinning cheerily, with his arm around a player Patel recognizes as Sebastian Telephone. A memory from his game against the Hall Stars surfaces, and he winces.

“But, again, we’re happy to have you,” Conner says. “And we’ll keep grillin’ and chillin’ until that black hole above the stadium swallows us all up.”

Patel finally cracks a smile. “Sounds good to me.”

* * *

He expects to be unable to sleep, but his body is so tired he passes right out. When he wakes up, it takes a moment for him to remember he’s on Conner Haley’s sofa. Sunlight’s streaming through the nearby window, and the smell of coffee wafts in from the kitchen. Still sore, he maneuvers off the couch and wanders into the kitchen. Conner’s already busy, with eggs and bacon sizzling on the stove and a sizable stack of toast on the counter.

“Morning,” Patel says. 

Conner turns. “Mornin’! Hope you’re hungry.”

“I am. Smells delicious.”

“We’ve got practice in an hour, so I was just wonderin’ if you were up to it. No pressure either way.”

Patel considers for a moment. “I think I will. It’ll be nice to play blaseball again, under my own terms.”

After a rejuvenating breakfast, Conner drives the two of them over to the stadium. A couple of players are already congregating in the locker room, changing into their iconic marbled meat jerseys. Patel is surprised to see that there’s already a cubby in the locker room for him, with a jersey and a new bat. This one’s singed like his old one, but deliberately, in a striking grill mark pattern that’s a Steaks hallmark. He gives it an experimental swing, and it’s just like his old bat. The jersey fits perfectly as well.

“Welcome to your first practice,” one of his teammates says - Patel remembers his name is Dickerson. His eyes are obscured behind dark sunglasses, but his smile is friendly.

“We won’t take it easy on you,” another player says (Ronan, Patel remembers), walking past with a glolf club slung over her shoulder. She winks, to make it clear she’s kidding. Patel finishes tying his shoes and follows them onto the diamond. The black hole is still there, an unfathomable void against the clear blue sky, but it doesn’t appear to be a threat at present. 

He follows the team through their warm-up, and he’s still a little wobbly from everything, but when he steps up to bat and Ronan throws a pitch at him, he swings and makes contact, the ball soars in a perfect arc into the outfield, and he feels like himself again.

* * *

When at last he’s made it through his first Steaks practice and the team’s deposited their equipment in the locker room to load into the travel bus tomorrow, it’s time for the famed pre-season cookout. There’s an undercurrent of excitement among the players, and as Patel returns back to the diamond, he can see why. Next to the right-field bleachers is a humongous barbecue pit, laden with every single barbecue-able food he can think of - hot dogs, hamburgers, steaks, vegetable and mushroom kebabs, and even slices of pineapple and peach. Next to the barbecue pit is a buffet laden with side dishes and beverages of all kinds, kept cool despite the piercing rays of the Dallas sun. Players have already gathered around, helping themselves as the current Grill Master, an affable-looking dad, tends to the barbecue and cracks terrible puns. 

Patel’s perusing the offerings when he notices that one end of the buffet looks more familiar to him than it should. There’s a stack of tortillas nearly two feet high, and dishes of sour cream, pico de gallo, guacamole, and cheese. He turns slowly to find Conner at his elbow with a plate of sliced steak.

“We wanted to help you feel welcome,” he explains. “Kit marinated this overnight with a bunch of lime juice, cilantro, and jalapeño.”

“Steak tacos,” Patel manages, welling up a little. “That’s so nice of you guys.”

He loads up his plate and goes to sit down at a picnic table with the rest of his teammates. Before he can take a bite, the sound of sizzling meat and chatter is interrupted by the sound of a beak tapping against a glass. A bird with iridescent blue plumage and feathered crest is pecking at their glass of water.

“August is right!” Conner shouts, holding up his lemonade. “A toast to our new player! To Patel!”

“To Patel!” the rest of his new teammates echo, and he blushes and smiles as they cheer and clap. It’s a wonderful sunny day, and he’s remembered why he loves blaseball, and there’s not a single peanut in sight.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and thank you for being a part of this wonderful community! We are all love Blaseball. (Go Steaks!)


End file.
